


Something Else

by notallwindows



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hogwarts, Hogwarts First Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallwindows/pseuds/notallwindows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry describes Draco in a vague manner. (Draco-centric)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Else

A handshake isn’t much, but no one rejects handshakes. No one, and I am nobody, the boy who lived (under the cupboard), quietly making an entrance with too big robes and a heavy heart and a wand weighing stones in my hand and pair of glasses (old) on my nose, taped, again and again, and a great big scar on my forehead that draws the eyes of everyone in the hall.

But he does not notice (did not notice) the first time he spoke to me. He asks for my name and before I could find an excuse not to give it the giant man marched in and brought me away and his silver hair that shines like sickles under the sun (not that I have had the chance to handle them, but I’ve seen enough to tell), his shiny silver hair slicked back and his widow’s peak showing, and grey eyes that speak like nothing I have seen before, his sharp chin and sharper mouth, and his nose turned up. His posture is ridiculous, and he stands like he’s going to see the Queen (not that he knows who she is), his back impossibly straight and head held high, so high.

When the hat cries out with a great roar, the hall breaks out in applause, infectious, and I smile. I catch his eye from across the room and he sneers but his eyes do not show amusement. In that moment I am so very glad I do not have to join his table. His eyes are cruel and grey and– is that a hint of disappointment? Before I can decide I am pushed by gentle hands off the chair, my minute of fame over (far too long) and I join the table clad in red and maroon and garnet and ruby and crimson. He is there with his friends, all proud and his hair stands out like a sore thumb and he looks all too comfortable and familiar and at home in the sea of green and emerald and teal and shamrock and olive and viridian and mint, surrounded by sneers and smirks and eyes that mirror his own.

No one falls in love with a boy like that, not when the words that come out of his mouth reek of prejudice and self-righteousness, not when he spits his words, crisp, each syllable carefully enunciated, the way he grips his broom with familiar ease, more out of habit then need. He does not notice a vein pops on his forehead when he does not brew a potion right the first time, not the way his eyes light up (sometimes with cruel amusement) as he laughs, never raucously, but aloud and his mirth sounds as crisp as his voice when he spits my name out, so clear.

When he flies he does not focus on anything in particular, his eyes roam everywhere, over the trees the grass the pointy grey tips of the castle grounds and the shimmering lake (with the Great Squid) and the broomshed and the people below, reduced to small dots. He can afford to (he won’t fall off and break his neck). It is in his blood, and he shows it off proudly, and everything boils down to blood (how could I for one second forget this), his pure blood and his ease with potions and charms and everything under the sun I can name.

This boy is something else, and he knows it.

**Author's Note:**

> (If I said this was a poem would you believe me.) Dedicated to a friend.


End file.
